Читать книгу Ancestors of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley - Страница 9
TWO
ОглавлениеDamisa peered through the foliage of the garden of the House of the Twelve, wondering if she would be able to see any of the earthquake damage from here. Since the ritual in the underground Temple, the earth had been quiet, and Prince Micail had ordered his guards to help with the reconstruction. Ahtarrath’s capital had grown from the remnants of a more ancient settlement. The Three Towers, sheathed in gold, had stretched toward the sky for a thousand years. Almost as venerable were the Seven Arches, in whose weathered sides students strove to trace hieroglyphs long since worn away.
The clergy of Ahtarra had done their best to prepare the old rooms of the House of the Falling Leaves for the twelve acolytes, but it was the gardens that made the location ideal, for they set the house well apart from the city and the temple. Damisa stepped back, letting the branches of the laurel hedge swing down. From here, no other building could be seen.
She turned to watch the group on the lawn a little distance away. Priestly inbreeding could produce weakness as well as talent. She often wondered if she herself had been chosen as an acolyte because of her royal grandmother’s influence rather than her own merit, but half the others would have run screaming had they seen those lights flickering up the passageway of the underground Temple. It occurred to her now that the guardians might have seen some benefit in adding the robust blood of Alkonath to the priestly lineage.
But why had they decided that the detestable Kalhan, with his blunt features and equally blunt sense of humor, was a fit mate for her? Surely he would have been a better match for Cleta, who had no sense of humor at all. As a minor princess, Damisa would have expected an arranged marriage, but at least her husband should be a man of power. Tiriki had said Kalhan would probably improve with age, but Damisa could see no signs of it now.
There he was, leaping about on the lawn, leading a cluster of other acolytes in boisterous cheers, while Aldel, who she had decided was the nicest of the boys, and Lanath, who was better with his head than his hands, wrestled fiercely. Even Elara, usually the most sensible of the female acolytes, was watching them with an amused smile. Selast, on the other hand, looked as if she wanted to join the battle. She could probably win, thought Damisa, as she considered the younger girl’s wiry frame. Damisa turned away. She could not tell if the fight was in fun or fury, and for the moment she did not care.
They all seem to have forgotten to worry about the end of the world, she thought moodily. How I wish I was home! It’s an honor to be Chosen and all of that – but it’s always so hot here, and the food is strange. But would it be any safer there? Are we even allowed to run away? Or are we expected to just nobly stand here and let the world fall to pieces around us?
Battling sniffles, Damisa let her wandering feet take her up the grassy slope. In moments, she emerged onto the outermost of the garden’s many terraces – a long, broad retaining wall with a sweeping view of the city and the sea.
Only two days ago Damisa had discovered this spot, which she was certain could not be seen even from the roof of the House of the Twelve. With any luck, the others did not yet know about it.
As always, the sea wind dispelled her ill temper. Every salty gust felt like a secret love letter from her faraway home. Minutes passed before she noticed how many boats were out on the water today – no, not boats, she realized, but ships, and not just any ships, but a fleet of three-masted wingbirds, the pride and the might of Atlantis. High in the water, their wicked prows sheathed in hardened bronze, they could be rowed to ramming speed, or ride the wind under sail. In precise formation they made the turn around the headland.
Nestled almost directly below her vantage point was a small harbor. It was rarely used and ordinarily quiet enough for one to sink into trance while staring at its clear blue waters. But now, one by one, the tall wingbirds cast out their anchors as their brilliantly colored banners fluttered and settled to rest in the calm of the bay. The largest was already moored by the quay, furling purple sails.
Damisa rubbed her eyes again. How can it be? she asked herself, but there was no fault in her vision. From each proud mainmast flew the Circle of Falcons, the sovereign banner of her homeland. A surge of longing brought tears to her eyes.
‘Alkonath,’ she breathed; and without a second thought, lifted her robes and began to run, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she passed the ongoing wrestling match and flew out of the garden to the stairway that led down to the harbor.
The largest of the wingbirds had dropped anchor at the main docks, but had not yet lowered its gangplank. Merchants and city folk had already convened on the pier, chattering excitedly as they waited to see what would happen next. But even with their servants, they were almost out-numbered by the white-clad men and women of the priests’ caste.
Tiriki was at the very forefront, swathed in fine layers of colorless fabric, her headdress dangling flowers of gold across her hair. Her two companions were covered by mantles of Ahtarrath’s royal purple. The rubies in their diadems burned like fire in the sun. It took Damisa a moment to recognize them as Reio-ta and Micail.
The ships were expected, then, the acolyte deduced, knowing well how long it took to put the ceremonial garments on. The fleet must have been sighted from the mountain, and a runner sent down to warn them that visitors were coming. She pressed through the crowd until she had reached her mentor’s side.
Tiriki inclined her head slightly in greeting. ‘Damisa, what a sense of timing!’ But before Damisa could wonder if Tiriki was poking fun at her, a collective cheer announced that the visitors had begun to debark.
First to emerge were the green-cloaked soldiers armed with pikes and swords. They escorted two men in traveler’s cloaks of simple wool, accompanied by a priest whose robe was cut in an unfamiliar style. Reio-ta stepped forward, raising his ceremonial staff to trace the circle of blessing. Tiriki and Micail had moved closer together. Damisa had to crane her neck to see.
‘In the name of Manoah, Maker of All, whose radiance fills our hearts as He illuminates the sky,’ Reio-ta said, ‘I welcome you.’
‘We give thanks to Nar-Inabi, the Star Shaper, who has brought you safely across the sea,’ Micail added. As he lifted his arms to make a formal obeisance, Damisa caught sight of the gleaming serpent bracelets that could be worn only by a prince of the Imperial lineage.
Tiriki stepped forward, offering a basket of fruit and flowers. Her voice was like a song. ‘Ni-Terat, the Great Mother, who is also called Caratra, welcomes all her children, young and old.’
The tallest of the travelers threw back the hood of his cloak, and Damisa’s cheer became a delighted squeal. Tjalan! She could not have said if she cared more that he was Prince of Alkonath or that he was her own cousin who had always been kind to her. She had barely enough discipline to stop herself from running to him and flinging her arms about his knees, as she had done when she was a child. But she controlled herself, and it was just as well that she did, for at the moment, Tjalan was entirely a lord of the empire, with the great emerald blazing from his diadem and the royal bracelets entwined around his forearms.
Lean and bronzed, he stood with the confidence of one who had never doubted his right to command. There was silver at his temples – that was new – but Damisa thought it added distinction to her cousin’s dark hair. Still, Tjalan’s far-seeing eyes were the same – green as the Emerald of Alkona, though there were times, she knew, when they could show all the colors of the sea.
As the strangely robed priest came forward Tiriki laid her hand upon her heart and then her forehead in the salute offered only to the very highest of initiates.
‘Master Chedan Arados,’ she murmured, ‘may you walk in Light.’
Damisa surveyed the priest with interest. Throughout Atlantis, in the priests’ caste at least, the name of Chedan Arados was well known. He had been an acolyte in the Ancient Land, schooled at the same time as Tiriki’s mother, Deoris; but Chedan had carried his studies further to become a Free Mage. After the destruction of the City of the Circling Snake, he had traveled widely. But despite his several visits to Alkonath, Damisa had never seen him.
The mage was tall with warm but piercing eyes, and the full beard of a mature man. There was already a strong hint of roundness to his belly, but he could not fairly have been called stout. His robe, made of the same fine white linen as those worn by ordinary priests of Light, was of a distinctly different design, fastened with loops and buttons on one shoulder and hanging loose to the ankle. Upon his breast was a disk of crystal, a lens in which thin blue-white glimmers darted and sparkled like fish in a pool.
‘I do walk in Light,’ said the mage to Tiriki, ‘but too often, what I see is darkness. And so it is today.’
Tiriki’s smile froze. ‘We see what you see,’ she said, very softly, ‘but we should not speak of it here.’
Micail and Tjalan, having completed the more formal greetings between princes, clasped wrists forcefully. As their bracelets clinked, the severe lines of their similarly large-nosed faces gave way to the warmest laughter.
‘You had a good voyage?’ Micail asked as the two turned, arms linked, making their way along the quayside.
‘The sea was calm enough,’ Tjalan quipped wryly.
‘Your lady did not want to leave Alkonath?’
Tjalan suppressed a snort of laughter. ‘Chaithala is convinced that the Isles of Tin are a howling wilderness inhabited by monsters. But our traders have been preparing a refuge at Belsairath for many years. She will not fare so ill. Knowing she and the children are safe frees my mind for the task here.’
‘And if we are all mistaken and no disaster occurs?’ asked Micail.
‘Then she will have had an unusual vacation and will likely never forgive me. But I have been speaking much with Master Chedan on the voyage, and I fear your forebodings are only too sure…’
Damisa suppressed a shiver. She had assumed that the ritual in the deep Temple had been successful, despite Alyssa’s collapse, because the earthquakes and the nightmares had ceased. Now she was uneasy. Had such tremors been felt in Alkonath, too? It was becoming difficult to assure herself that Tjalan’s visit was no more than a social call.
‘And who is this? Can this be little Damisa, grown woman-high?’
The voice brought Damisa’s head around. The third traveler stood before her with his cloak now thrown back to reveal a sleeveless tunic and kilt so emblazoned with embroidery she blinked as the bright garments caught the sun. But she knew the gaudy clothing covered a muscular body, and the long dagger sheathed at the man’s side, however ornate, was not aristocratic frippery. He was Antar, Tjalan’s bodyguard from the time they were boys.
‘It is Damisa,’ Antar answered himself, his dark eyes, as always, in constant motion, watching for any threat to his lord.
Damisa blushed, realizing that the others were now looking at her, too.
‘Trust you, Antar, to see her first,’ said Micail, smiling.
‘I trust Antar to see everything first,’ Tjalan commented, with a grin no less wide. ‘Damisa. What a pleasure, sweet cousin, to find a flower of Alkona amid so many lilies.’ His attitude was warm and welcoming, but as Damisa walked forward she knew that the days of childish hugs were forever gone. She held out her hand, and her prince bent to it respectfully – if with a twinkle in his sea-colored eyes.
‘Damisa, you are become a woman indeed,’ said Tjalan appreciatively. But he let go her hand, and turned once more to Tiriki. ‘You have taken good care of our flower, I see.’ . ‘We do what we may, my noble lord. And now—’ Tiriki handed the basket of fruit and flowers to Damisa as she said, in a ringing voice, ‘Let the officers of the city make the Prince of Alkonath most welcome.’ She gestured toward the open square at the entrance to the quay where, as if by magic, crimson pavilions had sprung up to shade tables full of food and drink.
Tjalan frowned. ‘I hardly think we have time—’
Tiriki delicately took his arm. ‘We must delay all serious discussion until the lords arrive from the estates in the countryside. And if the people see us eat and drink together, it will hearten the city. Indulge us, my noble lord, I pray.’
As ever, beneath Tiriki’s words rang the cadence of a song. A man would have to be made of stone, Damisa thought, to resist the sweetness in that plea.
Micail glanced around the great hall to ascertain that the servants had finished setting out the earthenware pitchers of lemon-water and the silver goblets, and then nodded his permission for them to retire. The last of the daylight shafted through narrow windows beneath the soaring dome of the Council Hall, illuminating the circular table and the worried faces of the traders, landowners, and leaders who sat around it. Would the strength of Atlantis ever again be arrayed in such order and dignity?
Micail arose from his couch and waited for the conversations to fade. For this meeting, he retained the regalia that marked him as a prince, although Tiriki had resumed the white robe and veil of a simple priestess and sat a little to one side. Reio-ta, robed as governor of the Temple, had taken a place on the left with the other rulers.
Once again, Micail felt acutely that he stood between two realms, the worldly and the spiritual. Over the years he had often found his identities as a Vested Guardian and as Prince of Ahtarrath in conflict, but tonight, perhaps, his royalty might give him the authority to enforce the priesthood’s wisdom.
If even that will be enough. At the moment, what Micail felt most strongly was fear. But the die was cast. His friend Jiritaren gave an encouraging nod. The room had silenced. All eyes were on him, tensely expectant.
‘My friends, heirs of Manoah, citizens of Atlantis, we all have felt the tremors that shake our islands. Yes, islands,’ he repeated sharply, seeing the eyes of some of the landowners widen, ‘for the same forerunners of disaster have shook Alkonath, Tarisseda, and other kingdoms as well. So we gather together to take counsel against the threat that now faces us all.’ Micail paused and looked slowly about the table.
‘There is still much that we can do,’ he said encouragingly, ‘for as you surely know, the Empire has faced circumstances no less dire, and has survived to see this day. Master Chedan Arados—’ Micail paused, permitting a flurry of whispers to run through the hall. ‘Master Chedan, you were among those who escaped the Ancient Land’s destruction. Will you speak to us now of the prophecies?’
‘I will.’ Ponderously, the mage got to his feet and eyed the gathering sternly.
‘It is time for the veil to be set aside,’ he said. ‘Some secrets will be shared which have hitherto been spoken only under seal of initiation; but that was done to preserve the truth, that it might be revealed at the appointed hour. To keep these things hidden now would be the true sacrilege. Indeed, for the threat we face has its deepest roots in a sacrilege committed almost thirty years ago in the Ancient Land.’ As Chedan drew breath, the bar of sunlight that had haloed his head moved, leaving him in sudden shadow. Micail knew it was only because the sun was sinking, but the effect was disquieting.
‘And it was not ordinary men but priests,’ Chedan said clearly, ‘who in the misguided quest for forbidden knowledge, destabilized the magnetic field that harmonizes the conflicting forces within the earth. All our wisdom and all our power was only enough to delay the moment when the fault gave way; and when at last the City of the Circling Snake sank beneath the inland sea, there were no few who said it was only justice. The city that had permitted the desecration should pay the price, they said. And when, soon after, the Ancient Land itself was swallowed up by the sea, although the seers gave us warning that the repercussions would continue, that the unraveling would expand along the fault line, perhaps to crack the world open like an egg – yet we dared hope we had seen the worst of the destruction.’
The priests looked grim – they knew what was coming. On the faces of the rest, Micail read growing apprehension as Chedan continued.
‘The recent tremors in Alkonath, as here, are a final warning that the Ascent of Dyaus – the Time of Ending, as some call it – is very near.’
By now, much of the hall was in darkness. Micail signaled to a servant to light the hanging lamps, but their illumination seemed too meager for the room.
‘Why were we not told?’ cried a merchant. ‘Did you mean to keep this secret so only the priesthood might be saved?’
‘Were you not listening?’ Micail overrode him. ‘The only facts we had were made known as we received them. Should we have created useless panic by proclaiming predictions of a disaster that might not have come to pass for a century?’
‘Of course not,’ Chedan agreed. ‘That was in fact the mistake made in the Ancient Land. Until the foreseen is seen again, its signs cannot be recognized. This is why the greatest seers are helpless against true destiny. When men are braced too long against a danger that does not come, they grow heedless, and cannot respond when the moment does arrive.’
‘If it has arrived,’ scoffed a prominent landowner. ‘I am a simple man, I don’t know anything about the meaning of lights in the sky. But I do know that Ahtarrath is a volcanic island. It is entirely natural for it to shake at times. Another layer of ash and lava will only serve to enrich the soil.’
Hearing murmurs of agreement from the village lords, Micail sighed.
‘All that the priesthood can do is to give warning,’ he said, striving to keep rising irritation from his voice. ‘What you do about this is up to you. I will not force even my own servants to abandon their homes. I can only advise all here that the majority of the Guardians of the Temple have chosen to entrust ourselves and our goods to the sea, and return to land only when the cataclysm ends. As a prince of the blood I say it, and we shall endeavor to take with us as many as we can.’
Reio-ta rose, nodding affirmation. ‘We must not allow the truth that the Temple safeguards to…die. We will send forth our Twelve Acolytes and as…many more as we can find ships for, with our hopes that at least some of them will come safely to…lands where new temples may rise.’
‘What lands?’ someone exclaimed. ‘The barren rocks where savages and animals rule? Only fools trust to the wind and the sea!’
Chedan spread his arms. ‘You forget your own history,’ he chided. ‘Though we have stood apart from the world since the war with the Hellenes, we are not ignorant of other lands. Wherever there are goods to be bought or sold, the ships of Atlantis have gone – and since the fall of the Ancient Land, many of our priests have gone with them. In trading stations from Khem and Hellas to the Hesperides and Zaiadan, they have endured a lonely exile, learning the ways of the native peoples, studying their alien gods in search of beliefs held in common, teaching and healing, preparing the way. I believe that when our wanderers arrive, they will find a welcome.’
‘Those who choose to remain need not fear idleness,’ said the priestess Mesira, unexpectedly. ‘Not all who are of the Temple believe that disaster is inevitable. We will continue to work with all our powers to maintain the balance here.’
‘That, I am glad to hear,’ came a sardonic voice from the western quarter. Micail recognized Sarhedran, a wealthy shipmaster, with his son Reidel behind him. ‘Once Ahtarrath ruled the seas, but as my noble lord has reminded us, our gaze turned inward. Even if people could be persuaded to go to these foreign lands, we have not the vessels to carry them.’
‘That is just why we come now, with half the fleet of great Alkonath, to offer help.’ The speaker was Dantu, captain of the ship in which Tjalan had arrived. If his smile was less tactful than triumphant, there was reason for it. The traders of Alkonath and Ahtarrath had been fierce rivals in the past.
Now Tjalan spoke. ‘In this time of trial, we remember that we are all children of Atlantis. My brothers remain to supervise the evacuation of Alkonath. It is my honor and my great personal pleasure to commit eighty of my finest wingbirds to the preservation of the people and the culture of your great land.’
Some at the table looked a little sour still, but most faces had begun to blossom in smiles. Micail could not repress a grin at his fellow prince, though even eighty ships, of course, could not save more than a tithe of the population.
‘Then let this be our resolution,’ Micail said, taking charge again. ‘You shall go back to your districts and followers, and give them this news in whatever manner you see fit. Where needed, the treasury of Ahtarrath will be opened to secure supplies for the journey. Go now, make your preparations. Do not panic, but neither should anyone needlessly delay. We will pray to the gods that there is time.’
‘And will you be on one of those ships, my lord? Will the royal blood of Ahtarrath abandon the land? Then we are lost indeed.’ The voice was that of an old woman, one of the principal landowners. Micail strove to remember her name, but before he could, Reio-ta stirred beside him.
‘The gods ordain that Micail must…go into exile.’ The older man took deep breaths to control the stammer that still sometimes afflicted him. ‘But I too am a Son of the Sun, blood-bound to Ahtarrath. Whatever fate befalls those remaining here, I will remain and share.’
Micail could only stare at his uncle, as Tiriki’s shock amplified his own. Reio-ta had said nothing of this! They scarcely heard Chedan’s concluding words.
‘It is not for the priesthood to decide who shall live and who shall die. There is no one fit to say whether those who depart will do better than those who stay. Our fates result from our own choices, in this life and every other. I bid you only remember that, and choose mindfully, according to the wisdom that is within you. The Powers of Light and Life bless and preserve you all!’
Chedan took off his headdress and tucked it under his arm as he emerged from the Council Hall onto the portico. The wind from the harbor was a blessed breath of coolness.
‘That went better than I…expected,’ said Reio-ta, watching the others streaming down the stairs. ‘Chedan, I thank you for your…words and efforts.’
‘I have done little so far,’ said Chedan, with a wave toward Tjalan, who had come out to join them, ‘but even that would have been impossible without the limitless generosity of my royal cousin.’
Prince Tjalan clenched his fists to his heart and bowed before replying. ‘My best reward is the knowledge that I have served the cause of Light.’ Suddenly he grinned at the mage. ‘You have been my teacher and my friend, and have never led me falsely.’
The door opened again and Micail, having calmed the immediate fears of the most anxious councillors, joined them. He looked worried. Until he actually set foot onboard ship, he would carry the responsibility not only for the evacuation but also for the welfare of those who decided to stay behind.
‘We thank you, my lords,’ Micail said, with a gesture. ‘I know I would not wish to endure such a council after a sea voyage. You must be weary. The hospitality of Ahtarra can still provide a bit of food and shelter—’ He managed a smile. ‘If you will come with me.’
I think you need the rest more than I do, boy, thought Chedan, but he knew better than to show his pity.
The rooms allotted to the mage were spacious and pleasant, with long windows to admit a cooling breeze from the sea. He sensed that Micail would have liked to linger, but Chedan pretended exhaustion and was soon left alone.
As the sound of footsteps receded, the mage unstrapped his bag and rummaged within it for a pair of brown boots and a dull-colored robe such as any traveler might wear. Donning them, he briskly descended to the street, taking care to remain unnoticed, and set off into the murky twilight with such calm self-assurance that any who saw him pass would have thought he was a lifelong denizen of the tangled alleys and byways of the Temple precincts.
In fact, Chedan had not visited Ahtarra for many years, but the roads had changed little. Every other step he took was dogged by echoes of lost youth, lost love, lost lives…Chedan paused alongside the vine-draped northern wall of the new Temple. Hoping he was in the right place, he swept aside a handful of vines and found a side door. It opened easily enough. It was more difficult to close it again.
Inside it was dark, save for a faintly glowing line of stones in the floor that delineated the way through a narrow service corridor lined with unmarked doorways. Chedan was able to move along the path quickly, until he suddenly came to the low stone archway at its end.
I am getting too old for such shortcuts, the mage thought ruefully as he rubbed his head. I might have gotten there faster by the front door.
Beyond the archway was a cramped, vaulted chamber, lit by the glowing steps of a spiral stair. Chedan carefully ascended two flights and emerged through another arch to reach the common reading room, a broad pyramidal room almost at the top of the building. Designed to catch the maximum daylight, it was now almost entirely in shadow. Only a few reading lamps burned here and there.
Beneath one such glow, the Vested Guardian Ardral sat alone at a broad table, examining the contents of a wooden chest. Moving closer, Chedan could hardly see the tabletop for the clutter that covered it: tattered scrolls, fragments of inscribed stone tablets, and what looked like strings of colorful beads.
Ardral’s attention was bent upon the prize of the collection, a curious sort of long, narrow book made of bamboo strips sewn together with silken threads.
‘I didn’t know you had the Vimana Codex here,’ Chedan commented, but Ardral ignored the attempt at polite interruption.
With a grimace, the mage appropriated a small bench nearby and dragged it noisily to a spot beside Ardral. ‘I can wait,’ he announced.
Ardral looked up, with an outright grin. ‘Chedan,’ he said softly, ‘I really was not expecting you until—’
‘I know.’ Chedan looked away. ‘I suppose I should have waited, but I’ve just come from the council meeting.’
‘My condolences,’ Ardral interjected. ‘I hope I succeeded in providing everyone with whatever information they needed.’
‘I thought I saw evidence of your work,’ Chedan put in.
‘But I simply could not face another rehearsal of the inevitable platitudes.’
‘Yes, there was a lot of that. They’re afraid,’ said Chedan.
Ardral rolled his eyes. ‘Afraid they might remember why they still aren’t ready? This has been coming for a long time, nephew. And it’s just as Rajasta predicted – even if he was a little wrong about the date. With the best will in the world, in the Temple as on the farmstead, most people simply cannot go on year after year, looking for a way out of an impossible situation that fails to develop at the expected time! The urge to resume the routine of life—’ Ardral broke off. ‘Well there, you see, even I do it. Speaking of which, I have something put aside that you used to enjoy very much. Perhaps we could go solve the world’s problems in private, eh?’
‘I—’ Chedan blinked, then looked about the gloomy chamber…For a moment, seeing his uncle, he felt very young again. ‘Yes,’ he said, with a chuckle, and then a real smile. ‘Thank you, Uncle.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Ardral approved, and standing up, proceeded to put the strange book into the wooden chest. ‘Just because eternity is trampling our toes, doesn’t mean we can’t live a little before—’ Locking the chest, he gave Chedan a wink. ‘We do whatever dance comes next.’
During Chedan’s last visit, Ardral had occupied a rather decrepit dormitory, some little distance from the temple. Now, as curator of the library, he had a spacious room within its very walls.
A fire blazed up in the hearth as they entered, or perhaps it had already been burning. Chedan glanced at the sparse but tasteful furnishings, while Ardral brought out two filigreed silver cups, and opened a black and yellow jar of honey wine.
‘Teli’ir?’ the mage exclaimed.
Ardral nodded. ‘I daresay there are no more than a dozen bottles in existence.’
‘You honor me, Uncle. But I fear the occasion will not be worthy of it.’ With a sigh, Chedan settled upon a cushioned couch.
In his uncle’s company, drinking teli’ir, it was almost as if the Bright Empire still ruled both horizons. Time had hardly passed at all. He was no longer the learned Chedan Arados, the great Initiate of Initiates, the one who was expected to set forth answers, solutions, hope. He could be himself.
Although the two had not been particularly close before the fall of the Ancient Land, Chedan had known Ardral all his life – indeed, years before he became an acolyte, his uncle had briefly been his tutor. Many years had passed since then, yet Ardral seemed no older. There were, no doubt, new lines and creases in the mobile, expressive face, and the shock of brown hair had faded and thinned…If Chedan looked closely, he could find such marks of age, but these slight details did not change his inner identity which had somehow remained exactly the same.
‘It is good to see you, Uncle,’ he said.
Ardral grinned and refilled their cups. ‘I am glad you got here,’ he answered. ‘The stars have not been reassuring for travelers.’
‘No,’ Chedan agreed, ‘and the weather is little better, though Tjalan tells me not to worry. But since you raised the subject, let me ask you – your head is always clear—’
‘For another moment only,’ Ardral joked, and quickly sipped more wine.
‘Hah!’ Chedan scoffed. ‘You know what I mean. You have never been one who is easily misled by presumptions or legends. You see only what is actually before you, unlike some – but never mind that.
‘Once, years ago,’ Chedan persisted, ‘you spoke to me of Rajasta’s other prophecies, and your own reasons for believing them. Have those reasons changed?…Have they?’ he repeated, leaning closer to his uncle. ‘No one living knows Rajasta’s works better than you.’
‘I suppose,’ said Ardral distantly, as he ate a bit of cheese.
Undeterred, Chedan continued, ‘Everyone else has focused on the tragic elements of the prophecy. The destruction of Atlantis, the inevitable loss of life, the slim chance of survival. But you if anyone understands the larger scale of the prophecy – what was, and what is, and—’
‘You are going to be a pest about this, aren’t you?’ Ardral growled, without his usual smile. ‘All right. Just this once, I will answer the question you cannot bring yourself to ask. And then we will put the matter aside, for this night at least!’
‘As you will, Uncle,’ said Chedan, as meekly as a child.
With a sigh, Ardral ran his fingers through his hair, further disarranging it. ‘The short answer is yes. It is as Rajasta feared. The inevitable is happening, and worse, it occurs under just the sort of conditions that give mediocre horologers fits. Bah. They’re so easily distracted from the many positive influences – it’s as if they want to think the worst. But yes, yes, we can’t deny it, Adsar the Warrior Star has definitely changed its course toward the Ram’s Horn. And this is precisely the alignment the ancient texts call the War of the Gods. But the ancients plainly do not say that such a configuration will mean anything to the mortal world! The usual human vanity. So predictable.’
For some moments there was silence, as Ardral once more refilled his cup, and Chedan tried to think of something to say.
‘You see?’ said Ardral, rather gently. ‘It does no good to think on such things. We only see the hem of the garment, as they say. So let it go. Things are going to be hectic enough in the next few days. There won’t be a lot of time for sitting quietly and doing nothing. And yet—’ He raised his cup, mock-solemn. ‘In times like these—’
Laughing in spite of his dark thoughts, Chedan joined him in the old refrain, ‘There’s nothing like nothing to settle the mind!’